Amy was the poor girl in my class. We were only fourteen, but kids can be cruel. She never had any food, and everyone made fun of her clothes, which were often too big and worn out. While other kids laughed, I watched her stomach grumble during tests.
I became her only friend and brought her extra meals. Every morning, I packed two sandwiches and two chocolate pudding cups. We’d sit behind the gym, eating in comfortable silence. I never made a big deal out of it, and she never said much, but the relief in her eyes was all the thanks I needed.
Later, she vanished. One Monday, her desk was empty. I heard rumors she went into foster care or moved states, but I never got to say goodbye. I worried about her for years, wondering if she was hungry.
12 years passed. Life happened. I was at the hospital last week after a bad car accident. I was terrified, in pain, and stressing about how I would afford the medical bills since I was between jobs.
I pressed the call button for pain meds, my vision blurry. The door opened.
And she turned out to be my nurse.
She looked different—confident, professional, healthy—but I recognized her eyes immediately. She was checking my chart when she paused. She looked at my name, then at my face. Her professional mask slipped.
I froze when she said, “You will feel better if…”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a chocolate pudding cup.
“…if you have your pudding cup.”
She smiled, tears welling in her eyes. “I never forgot,” she whispered. “You fed me when no one else would look at me. Now, let me take care of you.”
Amy wasn’t just my nurse; she was the Head Nurse of the department. She stayed past her shift to make sure I was comfortable, and she used her employee advocacy resources to help me significantly reduce my hospital bill. I fed her lunch for a year; she saved me from financial ruin. We’re grabbing dinner next week—and this time, it’s her treat.
